In the Nighttime
by SnapeJuice
Summary: A quartet of internal monologues as Ginny, victim of Draco's blackmail and physical lust, allows him to take what is his according to their bargain. NOT ROMANCE.
1. Substitute for Your Own Hands

You have always been a betting man.  
  
A risk taker. The one whom all the boys love to hate and all the girls hate to love. You swagger, you smirk, you look at me as if I am worse than the dirty Hogwarts floor your spotless shoes step on each and every day. You hate me, you hate my family, you hate everything I stand for, so why are you here now, on top of me, grunting, pushing in and out of me?  
  
Your blonde hair, slightly mussed from your physical efforts, falls over your eyes as you continue on towards your goal - physical release. but like I said before, you are a gambling man like your father. You like to stand in the front of a hurricane and yell at it, daring it to try and sweep you up. And the funny thing about you, Draco, is that you actually think you stand a chance. Magical powers are one thing in the hands of someone like Dumbledore, but in the hands of a seventh year Slytherin barely passing his O.W.L.'s, there is no contest.  
  
Your breathing is getting faster. It is coming. Soon. Soon, you will reach your climax, and with it that power you wield over me. You feel the height of the thrill when you let your seed go into me. Will you do it tonight, Draco? Or will you pull out? What kind of mood are you in tonight? Did you lose at cards? Did Crabbe and Goyle take this week's allowance? Do you feel the need to win? To have the power? To know that you can have control over something, anything, in your pathetic, miserable life?  
  
So how desperate are you tonight, Draco? Are you going to do it? Are you really going to tempt fate again? Sometimes you do, and when I feel your seed going into me, I want to get out from under you and kill you for doing this to me. To make me submit to your physical whims whenever you get the urge. You know my family's secret, and because of this, and only because of this do I allow you to do this to me: to make me your Gryffindor whore. Do you think you will climax inside me tonight - play Russian Roulette with my reputation and your inheritance? Take the risk of conceiving a redheaded, ferret-faced, smirking child?  
  
I lie here, frozen underneath you. No, not because you put a "Petrificus Totalus" on me - that would be too easy for you. You like the feelings you stir up in me - the self-loathing of a cheap hooker, you once labeled the emotion. My body is nothing but a substitute for your own hands, and perhaps you could have a better time of it by doing this yourself, beating yourself to a desired end - but then of course, there would be no sense of danger. You have taken all my preventative measures away from me; you disable my wand from completing a contraception spell, and wearing a Muggle condom would take away from the risk, the high, the climax - the reason you do this to me each and every night.  
  
You will be reaching your peak now. In a minute. In a matter of seconds, I believe, as your back arches. You are readying yourself for your ejaculation. And I ready myself for this to be over. At least for tonight.  
  
I hate you, Malfoy. I hate the way you moan as your reach your climax. I hate the way you whisper to Crabbe and Goyle when I see you in the halls, because they know what I do for you - but they do not my secret. I hate the way you touch me when we are alone here, as you find your end and I find my shame.  
  
I hate you. 


	2. Sense of Kinship

A/N: This is dedicated to the interminably dedicated Isa, author of the freaking HILARIOUS stories "My Family" and "Little Nicky" (which has not been updated in awhile :::looks at watch::: ) Time's ticking, dear! I'm waiting! While this was originally going to be just a one-part fic, she has given me the inspiration to continue.  
  
On that same note, I would also like to point out that the first chapter was heavily influenced by the feminist theorist Luce Irigaray and her essay "The Sex Which is Not One."  
  
You're the daughter of a Death Wench, Weasley. What sort of a shock was it when you found out? To know that your mother was just like you: a whore. Oh, not just any whore, but a Death Eaters whore? That she lay there underneath countless Death Eaters who used her, fondled her, just as I do to you each and every night? Do you feel a sense of kinship with your slut of a mother, Weasley? You should. You are no better.  
  
I am damn lucky that my father is such an egotistical bastard, otherwise he never would have told me what she did for them. And like my bargain, so to speak, with you, she willingly did each and every single thing they wanted. Hours of entertainment she provided, my father has told me, often whispering whenever you and your flame-haired siblings pass us in Diagon Alley with your immaculate-as-Mary-herself mother and your stupid git of a father - the only boy willing to make an honest woman out of their trollop. Insatiable, he would quietly reminisce, that Molly was, fascinated by the Dark Arts - but too scared to explore them herself. So instead of putting her career at Hogwarts in peril, she put out. It was the closest thing to the Dark Arts she could let herself near.  
  
Your jezebel of a mother was a groupie, Weasley, but that is not the worst thing she did, is it? Only you, your mother, my father, and I know the real truth of the matter.  
  
When my father and your mother attended Hogwarts, the Death Eaters needed people on their side, new minds to mold, fresh flesh to shape. They needed young soldiers - children - to stand for our side, so what did your mother do to contribute her part? The only thing a real harlot can do: she bore the Death Eaters a bastard. I say Death Eaters only because your mother was so easy that no one was ever sure which swimmer finally did the deed and knocked her up.  
  
Who would guess that your matronly mother was once a wanton slattern? That she had beautiful supple breasts not unlike the ones I put pressure on as I climax? Or creamy thighs not unlike the ones I spread every night in order to enter you? Not many, I would think. This is apart of our bargain, Weasley. I keep your secret and you keep me satisfied. My own real life blow up doll that wanks me when I feel the need or gives me an easy lay when I desire it.  
  
And I make you feel like crap, don't I, Weasley? I make you feel debauched, cheapened and ruined, don't I? I have ruined sex for you entirely, haven't I? I took your virginity, and any sort of self-respect you may have still possessed after I told you I knew your mother's secret. And every time I climax into you, I feel you tense up, because you feel what I feel. The same thoughts run through my head as through your's: Will I turn you into your mother? Will I ruin your career at Hogwarts as my father attempted to do to your mother? Will you bear my bastard?  
  
And I'll tell you what, Weasley. I think you are more perceptive than you let on. You know what it does to me to play with your future; sex with me, a Slytherin and your desired's enemy, no less, is one thing, the mother of my bastard is definitely another. You once told me you never wanted to see a redhaired, ferret faced child come from your womb; you would sooner abort than bear my child - so I took that option away from you, for if I gave you the option to terminate or prevent a pregnancy, my personal power over you would diminish because that child is your ultimate nightmare.  
  
And as much as I despise you, Weasley, you are a satisfying screw. Just as your mother was before you.  
  
And as I enter your room, I see you stiffen. I put a silencing curse on your bed as you ready yourself, not allowing the other Gryffindors to hear my moans and your silent tears. I love knowing that I can have you anytime I want, and that you will always be conscious of what I am doing to you, Ginny Weasley, my weight on top of you as I start, and the remnants of me inside you as I finish. 


	3. The Daughter of Your Father's Whore

Your father told you about the child that my mother bore before her marriage to my father, before they had ever even thought about having Bill. Your father told you that, for a while, my mother was tempted by the Dark Side. And I'm sure that your father told you in detail about his ravishment of my mother, how he manipulated a naïve young girl who was trying to find herself. 

In some ways, instead of finding a sense of self, I think she may have been running from that which she claimed she was seeking, sadly. She found your father, and made a mistake. And then she found _my _father, and made seven mistakes – bearing as many children as it took for her to forget herself once again.

And in the aftermath of it all, you fuck me for those errors in her judgment made years before I was even _conceived_- before she was mother, or a wife, or a girlfriend, or a strumpet. 

My mother gave birth to the child known as Bartemius Crouch Jr. after fourteen hours of labor, she told me. And when your father took the child away, muttering something about implanting a seed of evil inside the Ministry of Magic, she had absolutely no idea what he meant. She was a scared girl at the time, recovering from the trauma and pain of delivery, when your father _took _her child – he just walked off with her child. I'm sure your father has filled you in on all the details – how he found out about Mrs. Crouch's infertility, and how he Polyjuice'd himself into Dumbledore to present the up-and-coming Wizarding politician with that which he had always wanted – a son.

Like you, he was the consummate manipulator. He knew that the child would look for guidance elsewhere, considering what a distant, militant father Crouch, Sr. would turn into. The elder Crouch became consumed by his career, and his innocent son was suddenly without a role model. Enter the grand, sleek Lucius Malfoy, who played father to his own son, and led him to the Side where the child could be an asset. 

There's one thing, though, that you don't know about this child, Malfoy. You know the story, as do I, as does your father, and my mother – but you don't know the whole secret. It is true that many of the Death Eaters had their way with my mother, but when my mother conceived the child, she secretly disobeyed your father. She _performed _the Paternus Charm on the inhabitant of her uterus – and _I _know that your father provided the seed for _our _sibling. 

Irony's a bitch, isn't she?

This isn't rape, Malfoy. You need to understand this. You are guilty of violating me – this is true – but to you, in your twisted mind, what you do to me each and every night, as you have me lie down here on my back each and every night, when you _touch _me and _whisper _things into my ear as your fingers run up and down _me _– this is somehow a victimless crime. This has been going on so long that I've just given up pleading. This isn't rape simply because I have never said no. It's implied consent, you bastard, and because I open myself up to you each and every night to preserve my mum's dignity, I will never, ever forgive myself.

I don't feel contempt or hatred or even spite towards my mother, as I lie here, you pushing in and out of my body – my _temple -_ your perspiration falling on me like acid, but the feelings I have for you, Malfoy – that's a whole other story. There is no sexual fulfillment that comes when you order me onto my bed. You taunt me, you call me frigid. Does an involuntary participant in a sexual act _ever _derive fulfillment? You are a control freak, you are a manipulator, you are the devil incarnate, but perhaps most disturbing of all, you could also be the father of any child I may conceive.

You've done more than spread my legs, Malfoy, you've spread part of the secret. You feign ignorance, but I see Parkinson staring at me in the hallways. Despite the fact that I don't want to be under you right now, she somehow blames me for this – as if I _want_ to feel you climax in me each and every night, to feel like some kind of Saturday night prostitute you picked up on the edge of Hogwarts.

Congratulations are in order, I should say. You've found a new way to degrade me. You've added years to my life, my sweet, when the only thing I want to do is sever them off, one at a time, watch them fall, watch you react as I deprive you of time to ruin me, to tarnish me. And it hurt the first time that you pushed me face down onto the bed and I wanted to die, I just wanted to suffocate myself as you entered me. You chuckled at my screams. You _chuckled, _and you continued. So add sodomy to your list of tricks for me to perform, and do me a favor, chuckle when you do it.  

What is it, Malfoy, that makes you stay? Why do you return to me night after night? What is it about me – what is it about the humiliation you inflict on me that arouses you so? Why? I'm not particularly alluring, I'm no prize to be won: I am simply the daughter of your father's whore, who is now your whore. 

And as a good daughter should, I fulfill my mother's penance night after night without question, seeking forgiveness from some cosmic force in which I don't believe and will probably never meet. 

Draco, I am paying for those sins she committed so long ago when she was just plain Molly, the girl without an identity.

Those sins that still haunt me today.


	4. The Only Luminescence

There is something inherently powerful about making a girl cater to your every whim, whether sexually or otherwise. 

You are my own personal sex toy, Weasley. If people tell you something time and time and time again, you start to believe it. My father's been telling me I alone control my destiny for years now, but it's not just me, is it, my lovely? I control your destiny also, each and every night, when I climax into you, when my seed enters the cavern that was once untouched, when the tears slip down your freckled face and onto my arms that cage you on your own bed.

I would never tell you out loud, but I have been looking forward to this all day, to have you under me, fighting the urge to claw my eyes out with your dull fingernails, chewed to the tip out of anxiety. The thought of being the master of one other person gives me a high without even employing a narcotic. And then I get to ejaculate into you – you, who is always open for me. You, who will never say no. You, who hasn't experienced autonomy in eons for some mistake your blessed _mother _made. 

This walk to Gryffindor Tower always does me a world of good. A little workout before the _real _workout starts. You don't want to be there under me, you don't like it when I touch you. If I never speak to you again, your life would be splendid, you once told me as I moved on top of you, in and out of you, as you turned your head and looked out the window, the moonlight the only luminescence in your dormitory that night. 

You dread the nighttime, Weasley, I know. You associate me with the dark. When the sun sinks, so does your heart, as you know I am sure to arrive.

Remember, though, that light is nothing more than the absence of darkness – but I never leave you, do I?

I am in the back of your mind whether or not I am there. You look around to see if I am tailing you with Crabbe and Goyle, as we laugh about what power I _must _possess to turn the cherished Weasley daughter into my own personal prostitute. 

You whore yourself out to me, you know this. Instead of money changing hands, though, its promises. And as an upstanding young Prefect, I keep my promise not to tell the world about the errors in your mother's judgment. Not to tell the wizarding world that there is a bastard out there, sharing half of your genetics.  

I turn the corner to the Tower. I am ready for you to lift your nightdress and lift your modesty. I am ready to touch you and taste you and feel you and scare you and fuck you.

I am ready.

I can see the portrait, the Fat Lady in the pink dress glares at me as usual. She knows what we do, but as far as she can tell, it's perfectly innocent.

Trust me,anything - or anyone - I do is rarely _innocent. _

You aren't there to let me in. I am an impatient man. If you do not appear in five seconds, Weasley, so help me - -

"Where is she?" I ask.

"She left this morning. I doubt she'll return," the Fat Lady replied, somewhat sad. "Not sure why though."

_You _fled Hogwarts?

"She left a note for you," the Fat Lady tells me tersely. "On the floor underneath my frame." 

I see it, a piece of parchment that says "Malfoy" in loopy scrawl I assume is yours:

_"You keep your word, and I will keep mine. __I have your seed of evil growing in me and for that, I will forever live in the nighttime. The damage is done."_

And I smile.

_~*~FIN~*~_


End file.
